Good morning dear friend! I feel happy and energetic today and I have been remembering my life during the 1940's.
Mom and dad stayed in Iowa until after VE (Victory in Europe) Day. In short order all of the German soldiers were returned home and the prisoner of war camp was closed. On VE Day, everyone was dancing in the streets and kissing and hugging each other. The joy was palpable and even as a toddler I joined in the dancing. Shortly thereafter daddy was transferred back to San Diego and we were on the Greyhound bus again.
Home life was so much different from today. The things that amused and tantalized me were several rather strange rituals that occurred on a daily basis. We didn't have butter yet and its substitute was a tough plastic bag that held lard and a magic yellow capsule. To make your "margarine" you smashed open the little capsule and mixed (massaged) the yellow dye inside of it with the lard until it turned an even yellow color. I remember that it tasted alright but had sort of an aftertaste.
Our morning meal always consisted of oatmeal mixed with raisins and molasses. Believe me, it was an acquired taste but one that left me with a longing for a spoon of molasses every once in a while. Another curse was the teaspoon of cod liver oil that we had to take after the oatmeal. Mom was very strict about the use of sugar and would not let us have candy or cookies or anything else sweet except for the holidays. At that time she would bake and bake beautiful cookies, cakes, and always fruit cakes. She made the best fruitcake and she would wrap them well and place them in a big 5-gallon tin with a lid. My brother, Charley, and I would sneak into the cans and eat that fruit cake every chance we got. Making the fruit cakes was a several-day process that marked the beginning of the holiday season. We loved those holidays because we could indulge in sugar, but it all backfired on us in our later lives as we had learned early that sugar equaled family fun and was so emotionally satisfying and as we grew older we would do anything to get sugar into our systems; even to stealing candy bars from the grocery store when we were five and six. All through my life I have turned to sugar when I was sad or stressed and I had become an addict to its call.
Cleaning house was incredibly hard work. To clean the floors you always had to get down on your knees, hopefully you had a folded towel to use as a pad for your knees but that was not always available. We used hot water, Fels Naptha soap-a rectangle of hard soap that smelled funny-and a scrub brush. The first step was to wash the floors, then when they were dry, you got back on your knees and applied a coat, or two, of a hard wax that you applied in a circular motion; by now your back would be breaking, but after the wax was applied and dried on the floor, you were down on your knees again with soft rags to polish the floors and make them shine. Charley and I were expected to do this job from the time we were five years old.
At five, I was taught to cook and do the dishes; Charley also received this training. Every week we washed the windows and window sills, scrubbed down the walls, and cleaned all of the knick-knacks that my mother accumulated. When we were about seven years old we were taught to do the laundry which meant filling the washer with hot water and soap. Anything stained would have to be scrubbed first on a washboard-a board that came in many sizes and in either metal or glass and was covered with horizontal ribs that took the flesh right off of your knuckles as you scrubbed the clothes. After going through a wash cycle, the clothes were individually put through a wringer (two heavy rolling cylinders that could break a finger if you got caught up in it) to extract most of the water from the clothes. The washer tub was then drained after all of the clothes were washed and rung out and refilled with plain hot water. The clothes had to be rinsed and then rung out at least twice. Then you emptied the washer and moved on to hanging up the clothes on the clothesline outside. Washing was started very early in the morning so that they could hang out long enough to get dry. Still your job was not done, for the next morning would be ironing day. Everyone did their homemaking jobs on certain days of the week. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was for ironing. Monday night you would slightly dampen the clothes that needed ironing (almost everything for my mother including the napkins (linen) and all of the sheets) and place them in a basket with a towel over it for the night. The next morning you put up the ironing board and placed the iron on the stove to heat up. Ironing took hours and my mom would always put on the radio and listen to the soap operas when she did the ironing. It was one of the jobs that she trained me for by the time I was six. I hated ironing. One thing I remember was the gossiping that the neighbor women would partake in about who had got their wash on the line the earliest, and who hadn't got their wash done at all. It was a major stigma if you didn't follow the pack and get your wash up early.
Very early in life I observed that all people were not treated the same. For some reason that I could not understand certain people were ostracized and treated terribly by the adults around me. They were the "darkies" and the Jews. Neither group could live in your neighborhood. Black people were required to live in one certain area in town and had no choice whatever as to where they would live. They could not eat in the same restaurants and could not use white bathrooms or drink from white water fountains. There were no black children in my schools and we were never allowed to play with any person of color. My mother, who was raised in Minnesota, referred to black people as "darkies" and their children as "pickaninnies". She never used the "N" word, but she managed to get her point of view across by treating any person of color as if they were little children with very little intellect and all of them were considered to be thieves of anything left unguarded. My father on the other hand had been born in Arkansas where there were often hangings and beatings and all manner of atrocities against black people. Somehow, my dad could never conceive of why they were so hated and he was outspoken about their treatment. He loved every person he met and saw all people on the same level as himself. He gave this attitude to me and Charley and so we were overjoyed when my mother hired Annabelle Smith (we called her Annabelle zeezo) to take care of us and the home. Annabelle was about 19 years old. She was slightly plump and smelled of apples and cinnamon. She became our mother and it was to her arms that we fled for comfort and love. Annabelle sang as she worked and taught us such old songs as, "Mammy's Little Baby Loves Shortening Bread", and many beautiful spirituals. She told us stories about Uncle Remus and Breir Rabbit and never, ever, did she get cross with us or scold us. Mother treated her as if she was her personal slave. Annabelle could never do anything right in her eyes and many times she made Annabelle redo the washing and waxing of the floors until she got it "right". She accused Annabelle of having many affairs with many boyfriends and ragged her unmercifully. Annabelle never spoke back or disobeyed her but Charley and I could tell that she was really hurt. Daddy tried to step in and make her life easier. He called her Zeezo (which was Charley's way of pronouncing her name) and made sure that she got extra pay and a lot of praise. This of course put up a red flag to mother and she treated Annabelle with even more disdain and had no feeling that she might be tired or hungry so she would just pile on more work for her to do, and then criticize her work and make her redo it. I remember losing respect for my mother and determining that I would always follow my father's path.
I remember clearly the day that a Jewish family moved into our neighborhood. They were expected to stay in their own area of town and when the real estate man sold them the house in our neighborhood he was tarred and feathered and then all of the neighbors brought all of their garbage and dumped it on to the lawn of the Jewish home. There were men and women that would throw the garbage at the house and call out racial slurs and threats about what would happen if they did not move out of the neighborhood. Their children were beaten up as they walked to school and it did not take long before the family put the house back up for sale and moved out of the neighborhood; where their "place" was. I never understood where that place might be, but I pondered how they could be "God's Chosen People"-as the minister was constantly talking about-and yet treated as if they were the scum of the world. Even at five years old I remember talking back to the preacher in my mind when what he said did not reflect what he practiced.
I hope you have a very good day and I shall be back with more memories of a time before there were modern technologies and when people's minds were extremely narrow and unforgiving. We could never have imagined a black President being elected. We could never have imagined a woman able to own property in her own name or having her own bank account. We could never have imagined letting Jews into our "sacred" colleges, and we could never have imagined a world where women could be anything they dreamed to be. Women could only hope to become teachers, nurses, or house wives. I wanted to be a veterinarian but it was out of the question at the time for a woman.
Mom and dad stayed in Iowa until after VE (Victory in Europe) Day. In short order all of the German soldiers were returned home and the prisoner of war camp was closed. On VE Day, everyone was dancing in the streets and kissing and hugging each other. The joy was palpable and even as a toddler I joined in the dancing. Shortly thereafter daddy was transferred back to San Diego and we were on the Greyhound bus again.
Home life was so much different from today. The things that amused and tantalized me were several rather strange rituals that occurred on a daily basis. We didn't have butter yet and its substitute was a tough plastic bag that held lard and a magic yellow capsule. To make your "margarine" you smashed open the little capsule and mixed (massaged) the yellow dye inside of it with the lard until it turned an even yellow color. I remember that it tasted alright but had sort of an aftertaste.
Our morning meal always consisted of oatmeal mixed with raisins and molasses. Believe me, it was an acquired taste but one that left me with a longing for a spoon of molasses every once in a while. Another curse was the teaspoon of cod liver oil that we had to take after the oatmeal. Mom was very strict about the use of sugar and would not let us have candy or cookies or anything else sweet except for the holidays. At that time she would bake and bake beautiful cookies, cakes, and always fruit cakes. She made the best fruitcake and she would wrap them well and place them in a big 5-gallon tin with a lid. My brother, Charley, and I would sneak into the cans and eat that fruit cake every chance we got. Making the fruit cakes was a several-day process that marked the beginning of the holiday season. We loved those holidays because we could indulge in sugar, but it all backfired on us in our later lives as we had learned early that sugar equaled family fun and was so emotionally satisfying and as we grew older we would do anything to get sugar into our systems; even to stealing candy bars from the grocery store when we were five and six. All through my life I have turned to sugar when I was sad or stressed and I had become an addict to its call.
Cleaning house was incredibly hard work. To clean the floors you always had to get down on your knees, hopefully you had a folded towel to use as a pad for your knees but that was not always available. We used hot water, Fels Naptha soap-a rectangle of hard soap that smelled funny-and a scrub brush. The first step was to wash the floors, then when they were dry, you got back on your knees and applied a coat, or two, of a hard wax that you applied in a circular motion; by now your back would be breaking, but after the wax was applied and dried on the floor, you were down on your knees again with soft rags to polish the floors and make them shine. Charley and I were expected to do this job from the time we were five years old.
At five, I was taught to cook and do the dishes; Charley also received this training. Every week we washed the windows and window sills, scrubbed down the walls, and cleaned all of the knick-knacks that my mother accumulated. When we were about seven years old we were taught to do the laundry which meant filling the washer with hot water and soap. Anything stained would have to be scrubbed first on a washboard-a board that came in many sizes and in either metal or glass and was covered with horizontal ribs that took the flesh right off of your knuckles as you scrubbed the clothes. After going through a wash cycle, the clothes were individually put through a wringer (two heavy rolling cylinders that could break a finger if you got caught up in it) to extract most of the water from the clothes. The washer tub was then drained after all of the clothes were washed and rung out and refilled with plain hot water. The clothes had to be rinsed and then rung out at least twice. Then you emptied the washer and moved on to hanging up the clothes on the clothesline outside. Washing was started very early in the morning so that they could hang out long enough to get dry. Still your job was not done, for the next morning would be ironing day. Everyone did their homemaking jobs on certain days of the week. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was for ironing. Monday night you would slightly dampen the clothes that needed ironing (almost everything for my mother including the napkins (linen) and all of the sheets) and place them in a basket with a towel over it for the night. The next morning you put up the ironing board and placed the iron on the stove to heat up. Ironing took hours and my mom would always put on the radio and listen to the soap operas when she did the ironing. It was one of the jobs that she trained me for by the time I was six. I hated ironing. One thing I remember was the gossiping that the neighbor women would partake in about who had got their wash on the line the earliest, and who hadn't got their wash done at all. It was a major stigma if you didn't follow the pack and get your wash up early.
Very early in life I observed that all people were not treated the same. For some reason that I could not understand certain people were ostracized and treated terribly by the adults around me. They were the "darkies" and the Jews. Neither group could live in your neighborhood. Black people were required to live in one certain area in town and had no choice whatever as to where they would live. They could not eat in the same restaurants and could not use white bathrooms or drink from white water fountains. There were no black children in my schools and we were never allowed to play with any person of color. My mother, who was raised in Minnesota, referred to black people as "darkies" and their children as "pickaninnies". She never used the "N" word, but she managed to get her point of view across by treating any person of color as if they were little children with very little intellect and all of them were considered to be thieves of anything left unguarded. My father on the other hand had been born in Arkansas where there were often hangings and beatings and all manner of atrocities against black people. Somehow, my dad could never conceive of why they were so hated and he was outspoken about their treatment. He loved every person he met and saw all people on the same level as himself. He gave this attitude to me and Charley and so we were overjoyed when my mother hired Annabelle Smith (we called her Annabelle zeezo) to take care of us and the home. Annabelle was about 19 years old. She was slightly plump and smelled of apples and cinnamon. She became our mother and it was to her arms that we fled for comfort and love. Annabelle sang as she worked and taught us such old songs as, "Mammy's Little Baby Loves Shortening Bread", and many beautiful spirituals. She told us stories about Uncle Remus and Breir Rabbit and never, ever, did she get cross with us or scold us. Mother treated her as if she was her personal slave. Annabelle could never do anything right in her eyes and many times she made Annabelle redo the washing and waxing of the floors until she got it "right". She accused Annabelle of having many affairs with many boyfriends and ragged her unmercifully. Annabelle never spoke back or disobeyed her but Charley and I could tell that she was really hurt. Daddy tried to step in and make her life easier. He called her Zeezo (which was Charley's way of pronouncing her name) and made sure that she got extra pay and a lot of praise. This of course put up a red flag to mother and she treated Annabelle with even more disdain and had no feeling that she might be tired or hungry so she would just pile on more work for her to do, and then criticize her work and make her redo it. I remember losing respect for my mother and determining that I would always follow my father's path.
I remember clearly the day that a Jewish family moved into our neighborhood. They were expected to stay in their own area of town and when the real estate man sold them the house in our neighborhood he was tarred and feathered and then all of the neighbors brought all of their garbage and dumped it on to the lawn of the Jewish home. There were men and women that would throw the garbage at the house and call out racial slurs and threats about what would happen if they did not move out of the neighborhood. Their children were beaten up as they walked to school and it did not take long before the family put the house back up for sale and moved out of the neighborhood; where their "place" was. I never understood where that place might be, but I pondered how they could be "God's Chosen People"-as the minister was constantly talking about-and yet treated as if they were the scum of the world. Even at five years old I remember talking back to the preacher in my mind when what he said did not reflect what he practiced.
I hope you have a very good day and I shall be back with more memories of a time before there were modern technologies and when people's minds were extremely narrow and unforgiving. We could never have imagined a black President being elected. We could never have imagined a woman able to own property in her own name or having her own bank account. We could never have imagined letting Jews into our "sacred" colleges, and we could never have imagined a world where women could be anything they dreamed to be. Women could only hope to become teachers, nurses, or house wives. I wanted to be a veterinarian but it was out of the question at the time for a woman.
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